


365 Days Later

by Mandibles



Series: Clusterfucksville [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Butt Plugs, M/M, New Year's Eve, Panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year later Jackson's still a drunk, crossdressing werewolf and Stiles is still helplessly in love with him, but this time around Jackson's the one with the gift for Stiles. And it's a pretty good one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	365 Days Later

The ball has only just dropped and the cheering in Lydia’s livingroom is still cranked up to a roar when Jackson drags him into the bathroom by his hoodie. Stiles barely has the door shut behind them when Jackson pushes himself into his space, mouth wet on Stiles’. It’s not the first time they’ve done this—and Stiles prays, prays, prays, it won’t be their last—but it still startles the living shit out of him, has him jumping out of his skin and almost crashing into the sink.

“What the fuck,” Jackson says with a bit of a slur as Stiles grabs his shoulders to steady himself. “How shitfaced are you?”

Stiles wrinkles his nose at the burn of alcohol that come with those words. “Not any more than you,” he says, grinning. For the record, Jackson does manage to look affronted a split second or so, but then he’s smiling into the kiss he presses on Stiles and sliding his hands into Stiles’ back pockets, pulling them closer, so he figures he’s forgiven.

This kiss is slower, but sweeter, wetter. Stiles can still count the kisses they’ve shared on two hands, yet this kiss feels like their one million and first with the way Jackson melts against him once in his arms, angles his head to deepen the kiss, to suck at Jackson’s tongue or, when he just misses that, his lip. Kissing’s a lot messier than it looks in movies he’s learned, but it is kind of soft, too, like he imagined,  _good._

But it’s strange when it’s like this. When it doesn’t taste like waxy lipsticks or plastic-y lipglosses or gentle lotions. It’s strange when Jackson’s in some tight shirt and jeans and sneakers, which are still nice and all, but nothing compared to Jackson when he’s tugging at the hem of a skirt and clacking about in heels.

He thinks back to New Year’s last year, to Jackson’s warm thighs bracketing his thighs and Jackson’s sweater fuzzy in his fists, and forgets the party of friends they’d left, groans so loud Jackson stops, draws back with a smirk that says he _knows_.

“I’ve got something for you,” Jackson teases in hot breath as he pulls his shirt from his pants.

Stiles relishes the tingling blush creeping his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jackson steps back with a parting lick that Stiles chases until Jackson gently pushes him back. Stiles leans against the bathroom door, not entirely sure what to expect, but knowing it’s going somewhere good when Jackson pops the button of his jeans, undoes his zip, and—

Stiles sucks a breath, feels sweat break out on his brow. “Oh shit—fuck— _dude_.”

Because Jackson’s shoving his jeans down his thighs and those are panties, super ultra panty level of panties, the fucking holy grail of panties. And that’s also Jackson’s  _dick_ pushing past the lace trim boundary of those panties, glans red and slit wet and head peeking over the brim of baby blue lace that’s stained darker. And—And it’s  _crazy_  because, yeah, they’ve kissed before, kissed a lot, and sometimes there might be a grope or something from Jackson’s end, but this? The closest he’s gotten to this for a straight year is jacking over the toilet in Jackson’s bathroom after Jackson’s kicked him away.

Is he hyperventilating? He might be hyperventilating. He’s going to faint and fall and crack his head open and as he bleeds out on the floor, his last words are going to be, “Panties,” and his dad’s going to have to get that carved on his gravestone and—

“Shh.” Stiles snaps back to Jackson who cradles his face, smirk razor sharp. “They’ll hear you.”

They. Them. Lydia and everyone. They’re in Lydia’s first floor bathroom and Jackson’s pants are pooled at his ankles and … yeah.

Actually, you know what?  _Yeah_.

_YEAH._

“They’re probably on to us now anyway,” Stiles finds himself saying against Jackson’s lips, head on a little straighter. “I don’t care,” he adds a little tentatively, looking to Jackson for confirmation.

And, strangely, he finds it.

“I guess the next step,” Jackson says around a pink-faced smile, “is to make sure they really get the message, right?”

Jackson backs a bit, kicks away his jeans before he bends over, braces his hands on the sink. Stiles slots himself behind him without really thinking, slides his hands up Jackson’s sides.

“Right. Right right right. Abso-fucking-lutely right, yeah.”

Stiles ducks his head, hitches Jackson’s shirt up so he can see more of his pale, freckled tailbone and where it leads to blue, lacy silk, to the odd bulge in the fabric between Jackson’s cheeks. Jackson reaches back for the waistband, but Stiles stops him.

“Keep them on?” Stiles asks.

Jackson pauses, but eventually huffs a laughs, shrugs.

Stiles curls his fingers into the crotch of the panties, nearly salivating for what Jackson’s offering him now, for what’s under his hands, and Jackson reaches back, scratches at Stiles’ skin in anticipation.

Stiles tugs the crotch out the way, groans helplessly. “Oh my god, what’s  _this_?” He traces his thumb over the black rim of the plug that sits snugly inside him, between his cheeks. “Shit, did you seriously wear this—”

“All night,” Jackson breathes, finally looking as fucked as Stiles feels in the mirror. He tugs his shirt off one-handed, balls it into his fist.

The wings of Jackson’s shoulder blades flex; Stiles watches, hypnotized. He thinks about Jackson sandwiched between Scott and Isaac on the couch, thinks about Jackson thinking about him every time he shifted in his seat or crossed his legs or got up for another beer. And the idea is brain-melting.

Stiles groans. “Fuck, so—so can I?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”

“Yeah,” Stiles echoes, sliding his fingers over the silk between his cheeks, over the base of the toy. A tremor goes through Jackson, from fingers to toes, and Stiles can  _feel_ it as he slowly, carefully eases the plug free, eyes trained on the way his hole, glistening and flushed, gapes after the silicone. And, not for the first time, Stiles realizes that Jackson Whittemore is every fucking wet dream, every fucking porn video, every fucking glorious thing that Stiles has ever fantasized about  _ever_ , all coalesced into an ex-bully he’s already two curious fingers into.

And it’s fucking  _awesome._

Stiles drops the toy. “I’m going to fucking  _destroy_  your ass, dude,” he blurts.

Once he realizes the words are out, he isn’t sure what to expect. It’s definitely not Jackson smiling into the mirror with a, “Then fucking do it.”

Stiles stares, a little dumbfounded, a lot overwhelmed. “Seriously?” he squeaks.

“Look, you wanna fuck me like that?” Jackson says low, down to one hand holding him up while the goes under for his leaking cock. “First step’s getting your fucking pants off, motherfucker.”

Stiles tears at his belt and jeans with lube-sticky hands. Whoa, okay, done. “And step two?” he asks once he pulls his zip, pulls his dick from his boxers, sweaty and damp in his palm.

“Step two’s getting your dick in me  _now_.”

Done and done.

Stiles spits down onto his cock, spreads it down his length with slimy precum and, fuck, it’s gross as all fuck. And it’s  _amazing_. But it’s nowhere near as perfect as pressing his dick into Jackson’s hole, pushing past the ring of muscle and just sinking in in in, silk sliding against him. And it’s easy, so fucking easy, because Jackson’s so wet and wide and open for Stiles’ dick, resistance nonexistent. The sound that bursts out of him is guttural, scarily feral, and Jackson whimpers, clenches down on him, once it hits the air. Now  _that’s_  perfection.

Stiles pushes down on Jackson’s tailbone, tries to savor the way Jackson sucks him in, the clutch of him,  but Jackson still manages to grind back on him until Stiles finally just ruts forward bottoms out, practically wheezing.

“Fuck, Stilinski, fuck,” Jackson moans into the mirror, voice tinged with laughter. “Fucking  _destroy_  me.”

And, laughing and sucking at the skin between Jackson’s shoulder blades, Stiles does. Or attempts to, anyway.

The first thrust is jerky and stiff and  _squelches_  and it knocks all the air out of Stiles’ chest. Jackson scrabbles for purchase, but Stiles does it again and again and again and again, yanks Jackson back  onto his dick until Jackson settles on clutching the counter edge for dear life with one hand while the other reaches under to jack his cock. Stiles slams and in and in and in in what he hopes is a _punishing_ pace, something he’s seen in Redtube vids with big, muscley tops and twinky little bottoms who take their cocks.

Really it’s just haphazard, something frantic and born of the base, wild need to _come_.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—Fuck, Stiles— _Stiles_ , shit!”

Which Jackson does quickly and messily, rocking back and whining tightly. It actually scares Stiles who’s hips stutter to a stop when Jackson starts to  _clutch_ , because just didn’t realize Jackson was so close, like  _fuck_. He sits there dumbly, hips still flush to Jackson’s ass, waiting for the twitches of muscle to ebb and for Jackson slump against the sink, Stiles’ grip on his hips keeping him standing.

Jackson grits, “ _Goddamn_ ,” and Stiles takes that as his cue to pull out, cock still hard and red, a strange sticky wet with lube and precome and sweat. He’s nowhere near as close as Jackson was, but once he starts stroking himself, once Jackson turns around to lean against the sink, the sticky mess Jackson’s made of his panties gets him there, has him coming all up Jackson’s stomach, his shirt with a grunt.

Stiles shudders and Jackson absolutely beams up at him, pressing a kiss onto him.

Then the door creaks open.

They both jump and Stiles thinks quick to hide the worst parts at least with his hoodie, but when Allison’s head pokes in, her grin is cocky.

“Uh, hey guys. Just thought I’d tell you we’re about to set off the fireworks. And,” she giggles a bit, “And Lydia says if you don’t clean up, you’re never allowed to use her bathroom again. So, there’s that.” With that, she pats the doorframe and shuts the door.

Allison gone, they sit silently for a moment, stewing in varying levels of embarrassment, before Jackson finally snorts and Stiles remembers how to breathe.

“That’s one secret we don’t have to worry about, I guess,” Stiles says a little tentatively.

“I wouldn’t say we were trying to keep it anyway,” Jackson says, reaching for the baby wipes on top of the doilied toilet tank. “But yeah, I guess.”

Stiles takes a wipe and smiles to himself as Jackson starts cleaning his stomach and frowns at the mess they have to take care of. He wraps an arm around Jackson’s waist so he can pull him close, kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” Stiles murmurs against his face. “Good New Year’s gift. No— _best_.”

Jackson smirks. “You one-upped me last year; I couldn’t let that stand. Now you’ll have to work extra hard next year to impress me. And I mean  _extra_  hard.”

“Pearls,” Stiles promises and Jackson’s grin tells him he’s going to hold him to that.


End file.
